


What's In A Name?

by TanninTele (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Harry is Jameson, I won't force you, Just read, M/M, Name Change, Or don't, Other, Ravenclaw! Harry, Smart Harry, idk what else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:13:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My entire childhood was a lie, merely a cover-up for something greater than I am; and yet, ten years later, I'm right smack dab in the middle of it all. I just want be normal for once, and all I know is that this doesn't cut it." <br/>In which a name is changed- and, consequently, so is everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I thru X

 

 

**_What's in a Name?_ **

**_Story One_ **

**_by Tannin & Tele_ **

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_What's in a name?_

_That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet._

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

**I:**

"We await your owl? We await your _owl?_ " A boy exclaimed in the darkness of his Cupboard. His forehead crinkled deeply as he reread the passage, a soft breath puffing past chapped lips. "Well, where in the hell am I going to find an owl?"

**II:**

The next morning while out planting Petunia's pink azaleas, Harry got his answer. A very large tawny owl swept down from the rain-stained roof of Number Two before depositing a crisp yellow envelope into Petunia's violet bush. Harry bit back a laugh as the bird landed on the white-picket fence and promptly relieved itself into the multi-colored zinnias.

Wiping the dirt from his palms onto his frayed grey trousers, Harry carefully plucked up the letter and skimmed through it's contents. "Wow, two letters in one day. You folks must _really_ want me to attend," he whistled.

Arching a careful eyebrow, Harry eyed the bird of prey, who blinked back with over-sized tanzanite eyes. "You're smarter than you seem, aren't you?" Harry asked the owl, voice sounding odd. The tawny bird hooted lightly before sticking out a long leg in response. A coin purse dangled from one of it's long black talons, and Harry tsked.

"You can't expect me to make a split-second decision for something as important as _this,_ can you?" Harry said, tucking the letter into the waistband of his pants. "Nope," he continued, almost to himself. "I hope you haven't any prior appointments, because you'll be showing me where I can find all this... _stuff,_ and then, I'll decide."

As Harry turned back to his work, the bird gave an indignant huff before hopping down from the fence and sticking his leg in front of Harry's face. Harry, stared at it, unimpressed. "I'm _not_ about to enter willy-nilly into this 'wizarding world' without a bit of research, first. I have more pride than that." He said resolutely. Glancing up at the lowering sun, he smiled.

"You know," Harry suggested, waggling his brows. "A few garter snakes have told me of a good mice-catching field over on Magnolia Crescent; if you want, you can go and acquaint yourself with them while I find us a map and bus fare."

The bird launched excitedly into the sky, and Harry laughed, calling after him. "Just make sure you're back by night-fall! And, please; don't eat any of the neighborhood serpents. They're my only friends."

**III:**

"Well, this is bloody fantastic. Where the hell do I go now, Ludwig?" Harry asked the owl, irritated. The bird (newly-named Ludwig, after an old philosopher the Dursleys rather disliked) was perched heavily on Harry's slim shoulder, his sharp talons nearly tearing into Harry's jacket.

Only a few seconds earlier, the pair had confidently entered the Leaky Cauldron only to find a completely empty establishment. " _Great_ customer service," Harry complained. "Can't even bother to put up a sign to tell us where to go."

Ludwig pecked at Harry's mop of black hair to draw his attention, before launching off past the bar station and through the courtyard entrance. Startled, Harry quickly caught up, stopping abruptly inside of the empty yard.

Spinning around rapidly, Harry searched the skies for his escort. "Ludwig!" He called out, voice echoing across brick walls.

Harry jolted as the west-most wall suddenly grinded apart, an empty hole quickly growing into a large archway. On the other side sat Ludwig, preening lazily at his wing feathers. A small smile grew across Harry's face as he took in the bustling streets of Diagon Alley (according to the brightly-colored sign hanging across the archway), and he had to stop himself from squealing in excitement.

Ludwig rolled his dark eyes at the boy's excitement, before fluttering up to Harry's shoulder and directing him with a hoot towards Gringotts Bank.

**IV:**

Having exchanged his 'Muggle' money into a handful of silver and golden coins, Harry excitedly ventured out into the alleyway. The moon glowed brightly above him, small pockets of life bustling from shop to shop.

A small group of ne'er-do-wells lazed against a sign reading _Knockturn Alley,_ smoking a from a dirty brown pipe and sneering at the passersby. Harry passed briefly on his way out of the bank, only to be tripped by a pipe-smoking witch dressed in dirty brown robes. Ludwig, who roamed overhead, hooted in warning.

"See 'ere, Rosier?" She gestured, leaping forward to press her foot into Harry's back. He gasped and fell forward, startled. His coins fell to the dirty cement, rolling into the dark alleyway. The woman guffawed, and her friends leered at the small boy. "I's has found a'nother filthy, lonesome Mudblood for yer bed. I know how you like yer boys on their knees!" She cackled as Harry righted himself, bangs flopping in his eyes.

Harry glared at the witch with blazing green eyes, and ignored how her limp-haired friend licked his lips with a hungry gleam in his eyes. As Harry carefully collected his fallen coins, tongue-in-cheek, he absently brushed the hair from his face.

The woman and her friends gasped suddenly, a raspy sound, and their blood-shot eyes went wide. " _Merlin be damned!_ " The witch hissed, reaching a skeletal hand forward to grasp his chin. Harry slapped it away quickly, turning on his heel and dashing out of the alley.

"It's Harry Potter!"

**V:**

"...Why didn't you _tell_ me I was a bloody celebrity?!" Harry hissed softly, slamming _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ closed. A half-asleep wizard, sitting across the bar, jolted in surprise, face falling into his eggs. Ludwig gave an unimpressed squawk, ruffling his feathers.

Harry rubbed his- apparently iconic- lightning bolt scar lightly, before leaning his forehead against the dining table.

He was from a _wizarding_ family _._ His parents, Lily and James, were a _witch_ and wizard; although his Aunt and Uncle had seemed to have forgotten this, when they told him they were dead-beats. Oh, and, fun fact; Lily and James didn't die in a car crash, either!

They were murdered when Harry was a year old, by the wizarding version of a terrorist. Only, the funny thing was, when 'You-Know-Who' turned his wand to Harry...something went wrong. Harry was meant to die that night, and yet...he survived.

Apparently, this was a big deal.

Harry was beginning to think that this 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' couldn't have been _that_ scary of a 'Dark Lord' to be bested by a child just barely out of nappies.

All the books claimed You-Know-Who to be horrifying, merciless and startlingly effective with his 'kill first, ask later' methods; so for him to be defeated by a baby (and a baby Harry, at that, who hadn't done anything more heroic in his lifetime than to help Mrs. Figg's cat down from a tree) was incredibly...impossible. Utterly impossible- and yet, seemingly true.

Ludwig hooted softly from across from him, pecking at a nearly empty tray of bacon.

"I know, I know." Harry said, almost to himself. The boy pressed his nose painfully into the table, scrunching his eyes in thought. "I'm acting childish."

Harry sat up moodily and lazily poked a spoon into his porridge, dragging it around in the greyish-brown mush. "I just feel like my whole life has been this big _farce_ _,"_ He continued sullenly, averting his eyes.

"My entire childhood was a lie _,_ merely a...a cover-up for something _greater_ than I am. And yet, ten years later, I'm right smack dab in the middle of it all." He abruptly smacked the table with a hand.

"I just want be _normal_ for once, Ludwig. I surely deserve _some_ form normality after a lifetime of hell, and all I know is that _this..._ " he gestured vaguely to _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._ "This doesn't cut it."

**VI:**

" _Ahem_..." Harry paused, stepping up on his tiptoes to reach the high marble counter. The goblin ignored him, dipping his quill lazily into the bottle of ink. "Er...okay." Harry coughed. "Hello. My name is...um... _Harry James Potter,_ " he whispered, voice hushed. "And I'd like to see if I own any vaults."

There was another beat of silence, and the surly-looking goblin raised his eyes from a piece of parchment, eyeing Harry distastefully.

"And does Mr. Potter have his key?" The goblin asked, baring his teeth in a bastardized version of a grin.

**VII:**

"-and the conversion rate to Muggle currency is currently four pounds to a golden Galleon, twenty-nine pence pieces to a Sickle, and a Knut equates to that of a single pence." The door pulled open with a harsh grind, revealing the smallest of the Potter vaults.

Harry swallowed as he looked up at the towering piles of gold, silver and bronze. "Wow." He stated softly. "That...is a lot of money."

**VIII:**

"So, hypothetically speaking, what chance would there be for me to...say...change my name to something less _well_ - _known,_ and still keep ownership to all Potter vaults, properties and possessions." Harry finished in a rush, green eyes hopeful.

"Hypothetically, speaking?" Griphook asked gruffly, arching a hairless brow. His gnarled hand inched towards a leather-bound file, and he spared Harry a small grin. "The chance is very high. But then, so is the cost."

**IX:**

The boy signed the bottom of his parchment with a flourish, blowing on the new navy-black ink to help it dry. Ludwig preened at his feathers while he waited on the window-sill, recently feed and ready for flight. The young wizard hummed happily as he rolled the letter and tied it with a loose black ribbon, before attaching it carefully to Ludwig's proffered claw.

The boy petted Ludwig's tawny head softly, giving him a small, grateful smile.

"Thank you so much for all your help, Ludwig," he said. "You were an amazing help, and if you ever need _anything-_ fresh mice, owl treats, a free back-scratcher...well, you know where to find me." He dropped a few coins into Ludwig's pouch, but the bird pulled away before he could add more.

Ludwig butted his head into the boy's shoulder, biting him lightly in reprimand.

"Shoo, you," he laughed, waving the bird off. As the bird launched out of the open window, the smiling wizard waved a cheerful hand goodbye, calling out. "Safe travels! Hope to see you at Hogwarts!"

**X:**

At that very moment, a long piece of parchment, lying peacefully on the Headmaster's cluttered desk, suddenly began to glow.

A soft blue-green light erupted across the list of registered first-years. A swelll of ink slowly formed, before crawling upwards in between _Kevin Entwhistle_ and _Justin Finch-Fletchley_.

The name _Jameson Evans_ appeared with a flourish of light, before settling down with a whisper-like _sigh._ And just like that, Harry Potter disappeared from the face of Britain, only to be replaced by the startlingly familiar Jameson Evans.

The truth was to be buried beneath a bucket-full of Galleons and a tube of Muggle cover-up, and left that way for years to come.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._ **


	2. XI thru XV

**_What's in a Name?_ **

**_Story One_ **

**_by Tannin & Tele_ **

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_What's in a name?_

_That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet._

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

**XI:**

"-PACKED WITH MUGGLES, OF COURSE-" A woman exclaimed, as though she weren't in the middle of muggle London. At the word _'muggle',_ Jameson quickly swung away from the passing guard's desk. Jameson scrutinized the crowd, before catching sign of four worn trunks; atop the largest of which an owl preened in it's cage.

His eyes lit up.

The speaker was a short, homely woman, beckoning four boys towards the platform between nine and ten. Jameson's heart hammered in his chest as he pushed his trolley after them, staring intently at the backs of their orange-topped heads. "Now, what's the platform number?" asked the woman, looking down at her youngest with amusement.

"Nine-and-three-quarters!" Piped the small girl, who tugged on her mother's fraying skirt. "Oh, mum, can't I go..."

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet," the mother hushed, running an absent hand over her daughter's long copper hair. "All right, Percy, you go first."

Jameson watched in astonishment as the oldest son set off at a run. His trunk rattling on loose wheels, Percy approached the platform quickly before... _vanishing_ into the brick. Soon after, the twin boys- wearing identical smirks- passed through the brick wall, one right after the other.

Jameson whistled lowly under his breath in appreciation. As the last son passed through the wall, Jameson prepped his cart before the wall and took a deep breath. _Here's to not cracking my skull open,_ he thought, before pushing off into the platform.

**XII:**

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one." A voice came from the door frame. Jameson looked up from _Hogwarts, A History,_ surprised to see a rather imposing eleven-year old standing in front of him. She stood like a scolding matron, hands upon her hips. Her hair was large and curly, and she had a pair of protruding front teeth.

"Like we've already told the fat one, we haven't seen any toads. Pathetic choice for a pet, anyways." Morag McDougal sneered from the other seat, laying her head against the armrest. The brusque, auburn-haired girl hadn't spoken more than a sentence to Jameson in the past two hours, other than _"if you don't bother me, I won't bother you. Quite a simple concept, really,"_ \- which was perfectly fine with him. She was a bit rude, anyhow.

The frizzy girl huffed, affronted. "That isn't very nice!" she chided, before her squinted gaze fell upon the book in Jameson's hand. "Oh!" She squealed, and Jameson jumped a bit in his seat.

"Is that a First-Edition copy?! Does it really include a map of the dungeons? That's what the sign at Flourish & Blotts said, but the book was awfully expensive. My mum thought it was a great waste of money for such a little thing." She flapped a hand dismissively. "I got it second-hand, anyhow, and it's a perfectly fine read. I've read all our course books by heart, of course, but it's always good to have a bit more knowledge on the castle beforehand. I've never seen a _real_ castle close-up before, and nobody in my family's magic at all, so I couldn't ask them about it. It was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was very pleased; I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you?"

She said this all very fast, and Jameson couldn't keep his jaw from slipping a bit as he struggled to answer.

Morag, meanwhile, groaned loudly in annoyance before jumping from the seat to bodily shove her way into the hall. Hermione- never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth- cheerfully sat across from Jameson. She absentmindedly smoothed her skirt, looking at Jameson expectantly. Jameson forced out a hand, then, and Hermione shook it enthusiastically. "Pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'm Har- ahem, Jameson. Jameson Evans. What were you saying about the castle?"

**XIII:**

"Did you hear that Harry Potter is attending this year?" Hermione asked, excitedly twirling her wand. "I got a few extra books for background reading, and he was in _Modern Magical History,_ _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century._ I did the math, and if he was a year old in 1981, he would have just turned eleven in July."

"How-" Jameson asked in astonishment.

"If he even attends Hogwarts," Hermione continued. "Lots of people think he'd be a shoo-in for Gryffindor. He must be very brave, vanquishing You-Know-Who and all, but no one really knows how he was raised after the attack. I just hope he's nice, not like those silly Muggle celebrities, flaunting their-"

Jameson didn't bother to cover his pursed lips, clearing his throat for attention. "As truly fascinating it is to hypothesize his moral character, I don't think it's any of our business, Hermione," he said lightly, and Hermione shut her lips, eyes going wide with shame.

"I just..." she trailed off.

Jameson took pity on her. Although obtrusively talkative, at least she was teachable. "Don't worry about it, Hermione," he soothed. "I just don't like gossip, and I want to know more about _you._ What house did you want to be in, again?"

As expected, Hermione quickly launched into the topic with great enthusiasm. "Well, I've been asking around and I hope I'm in Gryffindor; it sounds by far the best. I hear Dumbledore himself was one, too. But I suppose Ravenclaw doesn't seem so bad, either-"

**XIV:**

_"So put me on, d_ _on't be afraid a_ _nd don't get in a flap!_

_You're in safe hands (though I have none), f_ _or I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

The whole Hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables before becoming quite still again. "Could it really be that simple?!" Hermione exclaimed softly to Jameson. " I memorized spells for _days_ in preparation of this, and all we need to do is put on a _hat_?"

Jameson nodded in sympathy, although his stomach was rolling in anxiety. Despite the concept's simplicity, the hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Jameson didn't feel particularly brave or quick-witted at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, _that_ would have been the one for him. In fact, Jameson wouldn't have been surprised if the hat just refused to Sort him at all.

...Could that happen?

His panic was brought to a halt as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a long roll of parchment. She cleared her throat, and the Hall went silent once more. "When I call your name," she began. "You will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

The professor delicately unrolled the parchment, before peering over the tops of her spectacles. "Abbott, Hannah," she enunciated. A pink-faced girl with short pigtails stumbled out of line and allowed McGonagall to plop the hat over her eyes. After a moment's pause, the hat shouted: "HUFFLEPUFF!"

After the applause, Professor McGonagall smoothly called the next name.

"Bones, Susan!" was sent trailing after Hannah Abbott while afterwards, a snooty-looking "Boot, Terrence!" swaggered over to the Ravenclaws. "Brocklehurst, Mandy!" shyly dashed after Terrence and "Brown, Lavender," became the newest Gryffindor.

"Corner, Michael!" sat besides Mandy Brocklehurst in Ravenclaw (giving a wink to the flushed brunette) and "Crabbe, Vincent!" (a rather ugly boy, resembling a less-whalish and more Hulk-like version of Dudley) needed help finding the Slytherins. The applause for Vincent was rather scant, Jameson noted with amusement.

"Damiano, Charles!" plopped happily next to the handsome-looking prefect in Hufflepuff, whilst "Delta, Mattheu" sulked as he was sorted into Slytherin. Before Jameson knew it, "Entwhistle, Kevin!" became a Hufflepuff and "Evans, Jameson!" was called. Hermione nudged him forward, giving him an encouraging smile.

Heart in his throat, Jameson shakily approached the platform, briefly meeting the cool gaze of the professor. The Sorting Hat was swiftly slipped over his eyes and everything went deadly quiet. Jameson jolted violently as a scratchy voice sounded in his ear.

"Difficult," the hat breathed, and Jameson could swear he felt hot air against his neck. "Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. A fine mind, too, just like your mother. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes...and a nice thirst for independence. For _freedom_."

Jameson suddenly gripped the edges of the stool. "Do you...do you know who I am?" he whispered, feeling a bit silly, talking to himself.

The hat let out a chuckle, and Jameson's grip loosened minutely. "I know a bit," the disembodied voice said mysteriously. "But don't you worry, child. What I find your head is strictly between myself and you. Now, where shall I put you?"

Jameson gave a delicate shrug, feeling a bit pressured. "You're the _Sorting_ hat," he pointed out. "You tell me."

The hat huffed indignantly. "Someone's got a bit of an attitude on them, eh? You remind me so very much of your parents- but regardless, they're _them,_ and you're _you_. Others may confuse the difference, but _you_ certainly shouldn't. Hmm...if you truly wish to break the legacy, perhaps not Gryffindor. Nor Hufflepuff, as I'm certain you'd eat them alive. A smart boy like you could likely survive in Slytherin, but under the guise of muggle-born..." he tsked to himself.

The hat cleared it's throat loudly as it made it's decision.

"Better be..." the hat hedged. " _RAVENCLAW!"_

**XV:**

As Jameson softly chatted with his new classmates, he almost didn't notice as Professor McGonagall smoothly skipping from "Perks, Sally-Anne!" straight to "Rivers, Oliver!" His peers certainly noticed, though, and an explosion of murmurs erupted as the Sorting finished, everyone wondering...

_"Where was Harry Potter?"_

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._ **


	3. XIV thru XXIII

**_What's in a Name?_ **

**_Story One_ **

**_by Tannin & Tele_ **

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_What's in a name?_

_That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet._

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

**XIV:**

Terry snorted in amusement as a breathless Jameson sped into the Potions classroom, drawing the attention of his Ravenclaw dorm mates; Terry Boot, Anthony ' _my mother calls me Tony, so please don't ever do that'_ Goldstein and Michael Corner.

"Cutting it a little close, aren't you?" Terry drawled as Jameson came to stand behind him.

"Budge over, Terry. I'm not in the mood."

Terry ignored him, smirking widely.

"You know Ravenclaw's stance on tardiness, Evans. Somehow, I doubt Prefect Penny would be happy to hear of this," he tsked, ever-so slowly shifting on the bench.

Jameson scowled as he sat, knocking into Terry's shoulder with his book bag. "You wouldn't _dare_ tell Prefect Clearwater, _Boot_ _-_ " he threatened, pulling out his supplies. "Because _you_ were nearly late for curfew yesterday, and _I_ didn't say a word!" Jameson huffed, and Michael chortled.

"Don't play the saint, Jamie, you told _me._ How did that happen, again?" Michael tapped his chin in thought, and Terry's eyes narrowed. "Oh, _that's_ right!" He continued, smiling broadly. "You insulted a coat of armor on it's state of luster, and it locked you inside a broom cupboard!

"When Jameson pulled you out, _three hours later,_ you rambled _on_ and _on_ about the horrors of having to piss in a mop bucket and, Merlin forbid, use your twenty-Galleon robes to wipe yourself. It was then Jamie reminded you, oh-so kindly, that _you have a wand,_ and easily could have _Scourgifi_ ed yourself...or, for Merlin's sake, _Alohomora_ 'd your arse out hours ago!"

Jameson snickered, and Terry sneered, crossing his arms. "Yes, very funny, Jameson; it was very traumatizing, I assure you. What's your point?"

"The point _is,_ that you're _very_ lucky I found you before curfew was up," Jameson poked his friend in the side. "So lucky, in fact, that I believe you _owe_ me one."

"I doubt that. Regardless, what's _your_ excuse?"

"I got lost," Jameson explained easily, straightening his back. "I tried using the map from _Hogwarts, A History:_ _First Edition,_ but the damned thing sent me towards the Slytherin commons, instead." He wrinkled his nose, tapping his quill against the table. "Nasty place, I tell you. All damp and cold, with a great ugly snake etched into the wall." He reached into his robe pocket and lowered his voice.

"By the way, Michael; the password's _'pride in kinship',_ but it'll only last for another month. I know you think that Greengrass and Parkinson are just playing 'hard to get', but - as I highly doubt they'll appreciate you showing up in their dorms to serenade them with Elton John - don't do anything I wouldn't do," he warned, passing over a small slip of parchment.

Michael's eyes gleamed with excitement, grinning in thanks. "I'll be a perfect gentleman, don't you worry, Jamie," he winked.

"Anyways," Jameson rolled his eyes. "Prefect Flint was only too happy to direct me into the right direction...after hexing me and docking ten points for 'snooping around'." He rubbed his ear irritably, frowning. "Which I most _certainly_ was not."

Michael smirked knowingly and Anthony shook his head in disapproval, before looking down at his Muggle watch. "It's been nearly a half hour since class should have begun,'" he told them, and Terry scowled darkly.

"What a waste of time," the brunette complained. "If the _professor_ can't even be bother to arrive on time, why the hell should-" The door slammed open, and the pureblood let out a startled squeak. Michael had to stifle a snicker as the professor stalked to the front, black robes billowing behind him.

It was all very dramatic.

The professor quickly called roll, faltering slightly as he called Jameson's name. The hesitation was nearly imperceptible, but after years of carefully watching the Dursley's emotions in fear of assault, Jameson had trained himself to be quite perceptive. The young Ravenclaw met Snape's eyes briefly, seeing something dark flash in his coal black irises. The boy frowned in confusion, and the professor continued roll a moment later.

If Snape's voice was still a bit shaky afterwards, no one dared to mention it.

**XVII:**

Jameson couldn't help it. As he nibbled his thumb, glancing down at the _Daily Prophet_ propped between his oatmeal bowl and glass of juice, he worried.

**_GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST_ **

_Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts' goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day. "But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokes-goblin this afternoon._

It was on his birthday. He was _in_ Diagon Alley that day, but he hadn't-

Jameson closed his eyes in frustration, running a slim finger across the Ravenclaw badge perched his lapel. With a whispered spell, the embroidered eagle abruptly ruffled it's wings, the soft vibration tickling his fingertips. The bird hopped around it's sewn cage in excitement, rubbing it's head against the pad of Jameson's finger. It was a fascinating bit of magic, introduced to them by Professor Flitwick their first day. The badge contained a small dose of calming drought made by the elder Ravenclaw students. It was _usually_ reliable, unless they're feeling a bit devilish that week. The drought soaked through your skin like an oil, loosened your muscles and-

As his mind gradually cleared, Jameson picked up the newspaper, feeling renewed.

_'- widely believed to be the work of dark wizards or witches unknown-'_

July Thirty-First.

_'-had in fact been emptied the same day-'_

The day he changed his name.

Was it all a coincidence? It could be, but the sharp sting in Jameson's concealed lightning-bolt scar seemed to think otherwise. These things had to be correlated, but _how,_ he didn't know. Making up his mind, Jameson folded the paper, grabbed a slice of toast and waved his friends away as they inquired to his pale face.

Hermione glanced up from the Gryffindor table as he passed, opening her mouth to comment. "Don't worry about it," he told her, forcing a cheerful smile. He departed to the library, then, unknowingly crumbling the toast in his tight fist. "Don't worry about me," he murmured to himself. _Worry about Harry Potter._

**XVIII:**

Flying was...utterly fantastic, in Jameson's opinion. He could go on, waxing poetry about the thrill, the exhilaration, the pure _freedom;_ but it was much more amusing to recall everyone _else's_ reaction.

"The concept of flying without mechanical assistance is intriguing...but I do believe that falling should also be taken in consideration," Anthony mused to himself, plaintively watching a Hufflepuff hover a few feet into the air. The poor first-year was violently shaking from head-to-toe, his eyes shut tightly in fear.

Jameson winced in sympathy as the green-faced 'Puff reached the ten-foot marker, looked down, and promptly vomited over the side of his broom. The Ravenclaws swiftly dodged the vomit, while Madam Hooch sighed in exasperation. She waved the boy down, helped him off the broom and pointed him towards a shadowed corner of the courtyard where he could vomit in peace.

"That's settled it. I am _not_ getting onto that death machine, and nothing you say or do will _make_ me." Anthony declared to Hooch, crossing his arms. Anthony, being a muggle-born, had never ridden a broom in his life. And he rather preferred to keep it that way, _thankyouverymuch._ It all seemed very unsafe, _deathly_ even, and- Anthony glanced upwards, before diving to the ground with a shout.

"You're lucky it was the broom and not your _spine_ , after pulling a stunt like that!" Madam Hooch shouted a minute later, towering over a tiny, red-headed girl. The shattered remains of her broomstick dangled in her grasp, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "Detention! Nine o'clock. Also, Miss. Bones," she said reluctantly. "You may want to consider joining your House Quidditch team next year. That cork-screw dive wasn't so terrible, and I think you'd do well at Chasing - so long as you remember to _pull up!_ _"_

Anthony was very affronted, as he had nearly been a victim of Susan Bones lack of timing- " _and she was being rewarded?!"_

Jameson pitied them, really, he did.

Once in the air, the boy had quickly shown his untaught talent for the sport. Jameson's new-found confidence was only encouraged by the excited whoops of his peers as he swiftly snatched the elusive golden practice-Snitch, floating lazily next to Anthony's right ear.

Anthony petitioned God, and stepped forward to scold his friend, only to be knocked to the ground by a rogue Quaffle.

It _really_ just wasn't his day.

**XIX:**

"Remind me to never _,_ ever _,_ do what these two say- _ever_ again." Anthony declared, collapsing exhaustively into the cushioned couch besides Jameson.

"You're being redundant." Jameson realized, setting down his quill and closing _A Hundred and One Charms You'll Likely Never Use._ "You're never redundant. What happened, Anthony?" The blonde's hair was wind swept, his skin abnormally pale except for his cherry-red cheeks. It looked as though Anthony had been running- but running from _what,_ was the question.

As the blonde pulled a patch-work quilt across his body, Terry and Michael passed the couch, their heads huddled conspiratorially. They were similarly desheveled, a rare sight for Terry- haughty pureblood he was. _This can't be good_ , Jameson thought. He sat up on his knees, staring down at his friend in concern. "What happened?!" he hissed. There was a pause, and Anthony sighed, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Alright, I'll tell you. But you can't tell _anyone,_ Jamie, I'm serious. This is _bad,_ really could even be _expelled!_ " he whispered.

Jameson frowned in consideration, sitting back. "That serious, huh? Do I _really_ want to know?"

Anthony leaned towards him, blue eyes glinting with an almost feral light. "Yes. Yes, you do. Have you ever heard the tale of Cerberus?"

**XX:**

"I just cannot believe the _nerve_ of that Ronald Weasley!" Hermione snapped, slamming her books onto Jameson's table at the library. The boy jerked at Hermione's abrupt entrance, resisting a laugh.

"What's he done this time? Perhaps rain checked you for weeks on end before suddenly just _appearing_ out of nowhere, ranting like a disgruntled lover?" He asked, bemused.

Hermione blushed, cheeks tinting pink. She sat down across from him, grabbing an inkwell and quill from her robe pockets. "I'm sorry," she murmured, unrolling a parchment. "I've just been busy, is all, adapting to it all - it is good to see you, truly, but I simply _must_ tell you what Ronald did! It was so completely _idiotic_ and uncalled for, I just-" Hermione took a deep breath, shaking her head.

"Never mind. It's nothing. I wanted to spend some time together, and rare as it is, I'm not going to just... _rant,_ as you say." Jameson frowned at her dejected tone, looking over the top of his book. Pushing away his textbook, he noticed her drawn cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes, mind flashing back to sleepless nights and stressful days with his... _relatives._

The Ravenclaw reached across the table to hesitantly touch the top of her hand, catching her eyes. "No, Hermione, it _does_ matter," he said. "I'm sorry if I gave you the impression you couldn't talk to me about these things, but if he's upsetting you or making trouble, you need tell _someone._ And, honestly, who then who better than me-" he gestured to himself, lips quirking into a smile "-your token Ravenclaw friend. Here at your convenience, milady."

Hermione giggled, sweeping away a lock of hair. "Alright, Jamie _,"_ she sighed, rolling her eyes. _"_ You've convinced me. You and your _charm_."

Jameson hummed in vague agreement, indicating for Hermione to continue.

"It's just," she began, picking up her quill. "I met Ron at the feast and he seemed so _nice_ , telling me about Nearly Headless Nick and stopping his brothers from slipping a prank potion into my drink...but lately he's been so very _rude._ I've overheard him call me a know-it-all _five_ times this past month, and he's always breaking rules and egging Draco Malfoy on-" she sporadically etched in the first inch of her Transfiguration essay, the nub bending from the force of her wrist.

"Malfoy's from Slytherin, you know, and that entire lot isn't very pleasant toward Gryffindors in general, but they seem to _really_ hate the Weasleys. But last week Malfoy tricked Ron into a Wizard's Duel over some dumb _Quidditch_ thing - Ron named Seamus his second, remember that cute Irish boy I was telling you about?" Hermione blushed lightly, before scowling. "I'm beginning to think most Gryffindor boys don't have much sense, honestly- and, of course, I _tried_ to convince them it was a bad idea, but-"

**XXI:**

Charms, Jameson thought, was his favorite class of them all.

In the opinion of many girls in his year and above, Professor Flitwick was the cutest little thing they had ever set eyes on. In contrast- while Jameson had, briefly, harbored the urge to pinch the professor's rosy cheeks- he was rather more attracted to the actual spell work than the teacher.

"Now, don't forget that nice wrist movement we've been practising!" Professor Flitwick squeaked as he pulled himself onto a pile of books. "Swish and flick," he demonstrated a moment later. "Remember, swish and flick."

Michael was quickly becoming frustrated with his stationary feather. His wand spat out meager grey sparks as he swished and...flung. His latest attempt at the spell caused his wand to go flying across the room, causing a small group of Slytherin girls to swear venomously. Flitwick docked the girls five points, and Michael flushed darkly in embarrassment as the professor levitated his wand back over.

Sitting behind them, a blonde boy in Slytherin robes sneered cruelly, before his feather caught fire.

Terry, at the next table, was having much better luck. Grinning as his feather began to hover, the boy waited until Flitwick's back was turned before carefully guiding it across the room. It was common knowledge that Lisa Turpin was a nocturnal creature - having irritated her exhausted roommates so often, that rumor had it she was given a separate dorm - so it wasn't irregular to see the auburn-haired girl slumped over her desk in sleep, a well-used quill lying limp in her grasp, ink smeared across her chin.

Terry pinched Jameson's side as his feather wiggled beneath Lisa's nose, causing her forehead to crinkle in annoyance. Jameson fought back a snicker as the feather pressed into Lisa's nostrils. The girl twitched, turning her head the other direction. By this time, Terry's jape had drawn the attention of several Slytherins, most of which were torn between amusement and envy at his skill. Lisa sneezed, eyes fluttering open, and Terry's spell quickly lost hold. The feather fell to the ground, and Terry groaned at the loss. "Great going, cousin," the blonde boy snickered, and Terry swiveled in his seat with a scowl.

"Stuff it, Draco," he snapped, "I did fine." He turned to Jameson for support. Jameson snorted unsympathetically and resumed his practice without comment.

 _"Wingardium Leviosa!"_ he whispered, and slowly - achingly slow - the feather rose...until Terry snatched it out of the air, grinning vindictively.

**XXII:**

"I am beginning to dislike the Weasel." Jameson muttered, glowering darkly at the Gryffindor table.

He picked at his potatoes, fork stabbing violent into the vegetable. His friends had wisely turned a blind eye to his obvious aggravation, graciously leaving room at the table for his Gryffindor friend. Jameson watched from the corner of his eye as she scooped a spoonful of beans, shoulders hunched.

Jameson had found the Gryffindor sobbing in the library, her hair puffed liked a cat's as she threw herself into a worn copy of _How to Win Friends and Influence People._

The book, Hermione informed him through tears, was written by an American half-blood wizard; supposedly a very distant relative of Salazar Slytherin. Jameson had skimmed the first few chapters, and it was obvious to him where the author had attained his more, _ahem,_ megalomanical tendencies- but what Jameson wondered was why Hermione had resorted to reading it in the first place. Through the promise of access to Ravenclaw Tower's personal library, Jameson gradually coaxed her into revealing Ronald Weasley's latest slight against her.

He was utterly furious.

"I'm going to kill the bastard." Jameson swore under his breath, throwing down his utensils. As the fork clattered against the table, Hermione wrapped a delicate hand around his forearm, brown eyes pleading.

"No, Jameson, please," she whispered. "No killing on school property."

Michael, who had been keeping a faintly lecherous eye on the slim brunette, quickly butted in with a wink. "Yeah, Jameson; you know the rules, no killing. But..." he hedged, steepling his fingers in (what he thought) was a very serious-like manner. "You know, Jamie, I _might_ know a guy who could, possibly, commit some severe maiming onto the Weasel- for the right price, of course."

Jameson gave him a flat look. "I'm sure." Michael opened his mouth to respond when Professor Quirrell came stumbling into the Hall, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"TROLL! TROLL!" The Defense professor fell to his knees about halfway to the Head Table, eyes glazed as he looked upwards the - for once - untwinkling blue eyes of the Headmaster. "Troll, in the dungeons..." the professor murmured, tipping sideways. "Thought you ought to know."

There was an uproar of motion, and Hermione latched onto Jameson's arm in fear. As they stood, Michael gave Jameson a shaky smile. "Ah, as you've heard, my 'guy'- or, rather, my semi-sentient magical creature- has arrived. If you want your revenge now..."

"No. Absolutely not." Jameson growled, and allowed Hermione to drag him away towards the door.

Michael shrugged. "Your loss."

**XXIII:**

Before Jameson knew it, the first Quidditch match of the year was upon them.

The entire school, from the Ravenclaw Towers to the Hufflepuff Basement, were buzzing with excitement - betting, theorizing and daydreaming of what potential entertainment could occur in the forthcoming battle between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Rivals in all competitions and conquests, there hadn't been a fair match between the two houses in decades; Pranks, tricks, fouls, injuries, hexes, brawls, and even the occasional hate-fueled snog - (a great scandal in the 1970s is recalled with amusement, in which, after a particularly spectacular foul, Gryffindor Chaser Jeremiah Cartwright tackled the Slytherin Keeper Isabel Selwyn off her broom, and somehow ended up with his hand up her uniform and her tongue down his throat) - spurned the Hogwarts student body into attending these matches with great joy and anticipation.

Somehow, herd mentality had even drawn Anthony and Hermione to the field, although they were promptly lost to the world as they began to debate the _'possible negative affects of giving rowdy teenagers a broomstick and a bat'._

Jameson sat comfortably besides the two, eyes roaming the grassy pitch in search of his pureblood friend. As they had entered the field, Terry was beside himself with excitement, bouncing on his heels in a distinctly unpureblood-like fashion and chattering off his mouth.

It was very entertaining, but somehow Jameson had lost his friend in the crowd of students. As he searched the field from above, Jameson finally spotted sight of Terry crossing the field with a clearly reluctant blonde-haired boy in tow. Jameson grimaced in recognition.

"Jamie, Michael, Anthony!" Terry called out as he bounded up the staircase, dragging the scowling Slytherin behind him. Jameson and Michael waved them up, and Terry and Co. methodically weaved through the crowd. Upon reaching the small expanse of empty seats, Terry spoke, a bit out of breath. "I wanted to properly introduce you to my cousin, Draco Malfoy. He's a bit annoying, but then again, so are you guys. I think you'll get along great!" He tugged his cousin's arm in excitement.

Draco shoved Terry away in annoyance, straightening his ruffled robes. " _Second_ cousin, _twice_ removed, thank you," Draco snapped. "You know, I rather don't appreciate you dragging me around like some sort of heathen. I'm not a _dog._ "

"No _,_ but you are a son of a bitch!" Terry quipped cheerfully.

Draco sneered at his cousin, but Jameson noticed he didn't deny it. He sniffed. "I see Ravenclaw hasn't done a thing to curb your foul mouth, _Terrence._ Are you so devoted to sullying the family name that you would resort to such uncouth displays in public. And in front of _Mudbloods,_ no less!" Draco's sharp gaze swiveled over Anthony and Hermione, lingering briefly on Jameson before he turned away.

Terry's eyes narrowed, and he drew his wand in warning. "And I see that your Sorting into Slytherin has only done to encourage your unadulterated egotism, Draco. Talk about sullying the family name; if you don't watch that barbed tongue of yours, you may just get it hexed off! _Adhaero!_ " Draco bristled backwards as Terry cast, hands going to his mouth. Finding no sign of a curse, he frowned, and attempted to step forward. His eyes widened as he realized feet were glued to the wooden planks of the stadium.

"I had hoped," Terry continued, voice dark. "To introduce my friends to a true Malfoy _gentleman,_ but all I've got is you _,_ so while you're _stuck_ here, I think you'd best apologize to Anthony and Hermione...Jameson and Michael, too, while you're at it. They don't _deserve_ to be treated with such truly gauche manners, as I'm sure you'd come to agree, if you _took the chance to know them_." Terry glared.

Draco's silver eyes blared at Terry's words, and he clenched his jaw tightly before drawing himself up tightly. He tried and failed to move his feet, and sighed in acquiescence. "I suppose you're _right,_ for once, cousin," he drawled, drawing himself up.

"I suppose that I...apologize that-" Draco was purposefully looking anywhere _but_ directly at Hermione and Anthony. "-you take _insult_ -" Terry twirled his wand threateningly, and Draco flinched away. "Alright, _fine,"_ he snapped, crossing his arms. He spoke in rush.

 _"_ I apologize for my...extreme lack of courtesy, for my inconsiderate insults, and- _and_ my use of improper language around a lady." Draco glanced at Terry for affirmation, his shoulders tense until Terry gave him a satisfied nod.

Hermione smiled at the blonde, and Anthony nodded lightly in acceptance, before the two turned to resume their debate. Michael ignored Draco entirely in favor of speaking to the curvaceous Lily Moon, while Jameson - ever the mediator - stood from the benches and extended a small hand.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Malfoy." Jameson said softly, watching in amusement as Draco gave him a small, tentative shake. "Jameson Evans. It's a..." he coughed lightly, stifling a laugh as Draco discreetly wiped his hand on his (twenty-Galleon) robes. "Well, for lack of a better word, let's call it a true _pleasure_."

**_To Be Continued..._ **


	4. XXIV thru XXXIII

**_What's in a Name?_ **

**_Story One_ **

**_by Tannin & Tele_ **

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

_What's in a name?_

_That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet._

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

**XXIV:**

It was the middle of the night, and the first-year boy's dorm was filled with the sound of heavy snores. Under the cover of darkness, though, one student was wide awake. Stealthy as possible, Anthony Goldstein crawled out of his bed curtains, tiptoeing over to his silver-lined trunk. Clicking it open, Anthony hurriedly dressed himself, tying his boots and slipping on his book-bag.

Minutes passed, and a bed creaked loudly.

Startled, Anthony pushed a slim glass bottle into his book-bag and made a mad dash for the door. Anthony gasped as he jerked forward, his suddenly feet glued to the floor. "And _where_ do you think you're going?" A voice suddenly drawled from behind him, silently padding over to face him.

Jameson came into view, holly wand twirling in his hand. The young Ravenclaw was dressed in baggy Muggle pajamas, while his black hair was mussed endearingly around the crown of his head. Squinting in the darkness, Anthony noticed a strange, pulsing red mark on Jameson's forehead.

Eyes flitting upwards, the brunette patted his fringe down, glowering darkly. Jameson was a full head shorter than Anthony (and a fair bit slimmer), but the young Evans boy practically towered over his friend with his rolling magic and imposing stance.

Anthony gaped in silence. "In case you didn't hear the first time, I'll ask you again, Anthony," Jameson spoke softly, voice level despite the ferocity in his eyes. " _Where_ on Gaia's good Earth are you going that requires you to be up at _midnight,_ donned in your entire winter wardrobe, travelling boots, and a book-bag?"

Anthony took an anxious step back, protectively grasping the strap of his bag. "No...nowhere?" He squeaked, trying to break free from the floor.

Jameson raised a dubious brow and inched closer. "Are you _asking_ me, or _telling_ me?"

Anthony's voice pitched in slight panic. "Telling you?"

Jameson made an irritated nose in the back of his throat as he leaped forward, wand slashing through the air. _"Diffindo!"_

Anthony was knocked to the ground, his arms pinned above him while Jameson straddled his waist. Anthony could have easily knocked him off, but was too busy flushing in chagrin as the bottle of whiskey - which had fallen out of his bag when Jameson tore it- rolled past his head. Jameson's eyes followed the bottle, and he raised another eyebrow. "And why...do you have _that?"_

The truth came spilling from Anthony's lips before he could stop himself.

"It's for Hagrid, okay?! I saw him up in the third floor corridor talking with the Cerberus like it's his _pet,_ and I was curious, so I pressed my ear to the door and heard him say something about a _stone_ , and _guarding_ something. Afterwards, I followed him down to his hut and I introduced myself-" Anthony sucked in a breath before continuing, eyes wild. "And since then, I've been meeting him for a couple nights now because _knows_ things, Jamie, and _I need to know what he knows_! I tried to ask him about the third-floor corridor yesterday, and he almost told me about someone named ' _Flamel'_ , before shutting down like it's some big secret-"

"Quiet!" Jameson hissed, slapping a hand over Anthony's mouth. Terry's bed creaked, and Jameson peered over his shoulder. The room remained silent, filled by Anthony's heavy breathing behind Jameson's hand. "Alright," Jameson spoke in a furious whisper, removing his hand and wiping it across his front. "So the giant's a loose-lipped pervert who enjoys encouraging eleven-year olds to sneak out in the middle of the night. What else?"

Anthony's cheeks puffed out, flooding with a pink blush. "I just thought...that if I got him drunk enough, I could, maybe-"

"You could _what,_ Anthony?" Jameson asked breathlessly. "Get expelled for drugging a staff member? Endanger yourself by leaving school grounds after hours? Perhaps be mauled to death by his three-headed _pet?_ Come on, Anthony, I thought you were smarter than that!"

Anthony blushed harder, crossing his arms moodily. "I was just _curious,_ Jameson! Michael and Terry-"

"Don't you dare blame this on them!" Jameson jabbed a finger into Anthony's chest. "I think it's rather hypocritical of you to say you'll ' _never, ever, do what those two say-_ ever _again',_ when you're the one sneaking around in the middle of the night, conspiring to get an innocent man _drunk_ off his rocker!"

Anthony lowered his head in shame. "But-" he protested weakly.

"No! I'm not listening to this anymore! I don't care how _curious_ you are, Anthony, if I find out you've been sneaking around the third-floor corridor again, bothering or looking into that _'Nicholas Flamel'_ business, I'll be reporting you to Flitwick," Jameson warned, voice firm. "Do you understand me?"

Anthony's head shot up suddenly, blue eyes bright. He spoke slowly, almost reverently: "Alright, but...I never said anything about _Nicholas_ Flamel."

**XXV:**

"Did you hear about Mr. Weasley?" Hermione whispered in Jameson's ear halfway through Transfiguration. The Ravenclaws and the Gryffindors were attempting to turn a thimble into a tack, and more than one person ended with a deformed hobnut, instead.

"Ron's father?" Jameson asked quietly in return, poking his wand at the smoking thimble.

Hermione nodded, eyeing the pale-faced red head across the room. "His dad works in the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry," Hermione murmured matter-of-factly. "According to Dean, someone thought it funny to bewitch Muggle cleaning apparatus to fly above Gloucester, and Mr. Weasley was found unconscious in the Auror department, nearly _killed_ by a floating vacuum cleaner he attempt to pilfer from evidence! As it is, he was concussed awfully and his left arm was nearly torn off by the suction, but he was also put on probation for attempted theft." She glanced at Jameson quickly, before looking back at Ron.

"The Weasleys are already saddled enough as it is, with five of their seven children still in school, and Mrs. Weasley doesn't work-" she swallowed, lowering her voice. "It's just, once the story gets out, Ron is going to be so terribly teased by Malfoy and the other Slytherins, and I was wondering if you could maybe just _talk_ to them-"

"Are you implying I have any control over the whims of Draco and his little minions?" Jameson asked in amusement, absentmindedly flicking his wand. His thimble shuddered for a moment before melting into a puddle of metal. He frowned, and Professor McGonagall passed by to restore it.

Hermione looked sheepish, and patted at her hair nervously. "Well, isn't Terry his cousin? I know you three hang about, sometimes, in the library and on the Quidditch pitch when it's not too terribly cold-"

"Have you been stalking me, Hermione?" Jameson inquired, eyes gleaming. "Or are you, perhaps, _jealous?"_

Hermione scowled, slapping the Ravenclaw lightly on his arm with her book. "Be quiet, Jamie. I'm certainly not _jealous,_ and I don't need to _stalk_ you to know that you're all buddy-buddy with that bleach-blonde bigot, Merlin knows why-"

Jameson stuck his tongue out. "Says you! And here I thought you didn't even _like_ the Weasel...or has his flowing mane of copper hair and boyish charms finally wooed you over, our picky little princess-"

Hermione smacked him again, huffing obscenities under her breath. "I assure you, my concern for Ron's well-being has nothing to do with his _hair,_ or his _charms,_ or his freckles and simply _lovely_ blue eyes-" Jameson arched a brow, and Hermione flushed, realizing her mistake. She brandished her wand indignantly. "Oh, just work on your thimble, Jameson!"

**XXVI:**

"I'd offer my condolences, but I don't think you'd appreciate them," Jameson said in amusement, plopping next to Terry in Charms. The blue-eyed brunette was grinning ridiculously, stroking the letter folded in his grasp. Terry had received an owl that morning, and lost no time spreading the news of his Aunt's death.

"You may offer them anyways, as custom." Terry drawled cheerfully. "A death in the family - especially the holder of several family vaults - is always such a...tragedy."

Draco, who sat behind them, scowled darkly at his cousin. "You could act at least a _bit_ distraught, Terry. Great Aunt Aurelie was a - " the Slytherin wracked his brain for a polite adjective. "Very _generous_ woman."

Terry sneered, turning to face the blonde. "Rich, yes, but never generous. She withheld her vaults from us for nearly seven decades," Terry informed Jameson, who watched on in bemusement. "Aunty Aurelie was born the second heir in line to the Malfoy family, and when she married Argus Boot in the early 1900s, she was named the beneficiary to half of the Boot fortune. When Uncle Gus died, we never saw a Knut of our inheritance for _decades._ Lucky thing father's a successful entrepreneur - parchment industry, did you know? Anyways, Aurelie's screwed over her birth family quite a bit, too; we think she poisoned Great Uncle Abraxas' first son, Faustus, when he was three years old...but they never proved it," he said bitterly. "We should be celebrating that shrew's death, not mourning it."

Reaching over, Draco rapped the side of Terry's head, grey eyes sharp."You _do_ realize that while the family sorts out her assets, our holiday will be absolutely _horrid_ _?_ I bet you a Sickle we'll be staying at Hogwarts for Yule Tide instead of at the Manor, while the adults - _literally_ \- duel out the semantics."

Terry immediately sobered up, frowning darkly. " _Great_. Just _excellent_ ," he groused, lowering his head to the table. "Even in death, that bitch is here to haunt us."

Draco sniffed indignantly at his cousin's whinging. " _'Politics is no place for children,_ _no matter the season',_ " Draco quoted, pulling out his homework. "Or so says my mother. It's a pity, but I'm sure the food will be pleasant enough, and no obnoxious relatives to pinch our cheeks," he shuddered lightly. "Then again," Draco acquiesced. "I will miss Aunt Carmine's cherry trifle, as well as Cousin Deimo's annual attempt to snog Cousin Endris under the mistletoe _\- and_ the rosy red mark Deimos'll get from Endris' right hook."

**XXVII:**

Jameson entered his dorm room to find a mess of wrapping paper and ribbons strewed across Michael's bedspread, Muggle tape stuck to the brunette's forehead, and a pile of wrapped gifts stuffed into his trunk. ( _"It's a tradition in my family to give the elves a week off on Christmas, so I have to do the wrapping myself,"_ he told Jameson glumly that morning.)

Jameson warily approached the bed where Anthony sat, flipping through a scrapbook.

"How very...creative. You put a lot of thought into this, I see." Anthony told Michael wryly, grimacing at a brief moving image of Daphne Greengrass changing into her school robes. He didn't want to even _think_ of how Michael got that picture.

Said brunette came up beside his friend, beaming as he pressed his fingers to an image of Daphne hustling from one class to another. "Thank you! I thought it nice, too." Michael eyed the collage up and down, watching image-Daphne's blonde hair bounce in it's pony-tail as she glanced back at the camera, eyes widening in surprise. "She nearly caught me that time," Michael whispered, closing the book. "But it was well worth it."

Jameson frowned in concern as Michael pulled a Slytherin-green ribbon out of his back pocket and wrapped it reverently around the dragon-hide album. "Isn't Daphne's daddy an Auror?" Jameson asked, out of the blue. Michael glanced up at him curiously, and Jameson hastened to elaborate.

"Do you really think it... _wise_ to give her physical evidence that you've been stalking her?" he asked slowly.

Michael stared at Jameson as if he'd grown a third head, before sneering in insult. "I should've known you wouldn't understand, _Jameson,"_ Michael spat, collecting his scrapbook and tucking it beneath his arm."It's called _love,_ you see;but a little orphan boy like _you_ wouldn't understand that, would he?"

Jameson looked flabbergasted as Michael stalked out of the room, heart panging in his chest.

He had revealed to his friends- in _confidence-_ that he had grown up Muggle-raised, with no idea his late parents were magic until he received his letter. Poor Jameson even needed a bloody _owl_ to direct him around Diagon Alley!

At first, his friends had insisted that he research his heritage, find if he had any remaining family members - but Jameson dismissed them easily enough. _"It's a difficult subject,"_ was his excuse. _"Maybe when I'm a bit older."_

Truth was, Jameson already _knew_ his heritage - or, at least, parts of it. His parents were James and Lily Potter, a muggle-born and a pure-blood, therefore making Harry Potter a half-blood. But that was just the thing - Jameson wasn't Harry anymore. He still held the Potter vaults, yes, and if he ever returned to the Dursleys, he would abide by that name - but as far as everyone _else_ was aware, Jameson Evans was a muggle-born nobody.

Not a celebrity, not a hero, not a scion or an heir. He was just...Jameson, and so long as he remembered that, he was in no real danger. After all - _Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me._ That in mind, Jameson decided he wouldn't be bothered by Michael's outburst. The Ravenclaw likely hadn't meant it, and - if Jameson knew his friend - Michael would be apologizing by dinner.

At Anthony's concerned look, Jameson just smiled dismissively. "He'll get over it."

**XXVIII:**

The next night had been filled with the creaking of Jameson's bed, his breathing rough and wild.

Hours passed before Terry padded over to Jameson's bed, ripping open Jameson's blinds. _"Lumos,"_ he spat, and a bright light poured from the end of Terry's wand, startling Jameson awake. Once Terry was sure Jameson was coherent, he lowered his wand.

"Once upon a time, there was something called sleep. I do believe you've heard of it." Terry spoke darkly, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

Jameson sat up quickly, lifting a shaking hand to sweep his bangs down. "M'sorry," he murmured, breath still ragged. "I...I didn't mean to wake you. I've just...I've been having these _terrible_ nightmares-" he was unusually loquacious at one in the morning.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake." Terry interrupted, turning on his heel. Jameson's brow crinkled, and he leaned forward, catching the edge of his curtain. Squinting through the darkness, he saw Terry open his trunk and remove a slim vial of a deep purple liquid. Moments later, Terry returned, swiftly unstoppering the cork.

"Dreamless Sleep potion," Terry explained tiredly. "Usually, I would recommend _'sharing your feelings',_ but it's one-fucking-o'clock in the morning, and I'm _exhausted._ In the morning, I can help you subscribe to _Slug & Jiggers Apothecary_, and you can get your own stock. I'll even pay for your first supply -

"-you really don't-"

"Honestly, Jameson? I'm being completely selfish. I don't know about you, but _s_ _ome_ of us need our beauty sleep, and _I_ certainly won't get it knowing that my best friend is being plagued by horrible dreams. But if it makes you feel better, you can even consider it an early Christmas gift. Just take it"

Jameson took the vial in a daze, still reeling over Terry's admittance. _He was...Terry's best friend?_

Jameson didn't even notice when Terry hobbled back to his bed, flicking out the light. Green eyes glazed, Jameson swallowed the potion warily, and felt a warm flush of fatigue wash over him. His breathing slowed, and the vial slipped from his fingers before landing softly on the blankets.

"Thanks, Terry," the Ravenclaw forced himself to gurgle softly. He waited until he heard the responding grunt from across the room, and fell asleep with a small smile- all the while unaware of the dark trickle of blood silently dripping down the slope of his forehead, his lightning-bolt scar tinged pink against the layers of Muggle make-up disguising it.

**XXIX:**

Three days before Christmas, Draco had barged into the Ravenclaw commons ( _"Your password is_ painfully _easy,"_ he informed the Ravenclaws) with a bag full of games, and fruitlessly attempted to teach Jameson wizard's chess. Needless to say, neither were very good at it; the teaching, nor the learning.

"No, you don't - for Merlin's sake- I swear, it's as though you have no forethought at _all._ You _are_ a Ravenclaw, aren't you?" Draco pinched his nose in disbelief, simultaneously managing to capture Jameson's king and insulting said opponent, all in the same breath.

"I am a Ravenclaw," Jameson insisted, staring down in bewilderment at the board. "And I do have forethought-"

"-just not very _good_ forethought," Draco drawled. Jameson frowned at the blonde, absentmindedly nudging a pawn off the table as it flicked him off.

"Oh, for the love of- Jamie! _Please,_ do not abuse the chess pieces," Draco caught the pawn with Seeker-like reflexes, carefully placing it with the others. "If they revolt, father will be furious! It's a family heirloom!"

Jameson rolled his eyes, sticking his tongue out at the indignant pawn. Draco noticed, and flicked Jameson in the forehead. Eyes glowing, Jameson swiftly unsheathed his wand and flung a hex at Draco's face, laughing uproariously as the blonde's hair began darkening to a shade of bright, Weasley-style orange. Draco gaped as his hair lengthened past his brow, curling at the ends and sticking out like Hermione's.

"No forethought, _hmm?_ " Jameson drawled, as Draco's cheeks began to warm with an angry heat.

The Slytherin scrambled gormlessly for his wand, shouting at his chess pieces to attack. Jameson laughed even harder, dodging a flash of light aimed his way. "TERRY!" Jameson yelped up the stairs, leaping from his seat as the chess pieces began to swarm. "Get a camera! I have _perfect_ blackmail material!"

**XXX:**

It was afternoon on Christmas Eve when Jameson finally convinced Terry to bring him down to the Slytherin dungeons. As the two boys passed through a dark stone wall (the password being  _'_ _aquifolium',_ Latin for holly), Jameson took a moment to look in wonder at the tall windows and high-vaulted ceilings of the Slytherin commons. The shimmering green glow of the Black Lake gave the sensation of being deep underwater, the shifting light rippling across vintage velvet love seats and sleek leather couches.

"I'll be back in a mo," Terry assured his friend, seating Jameson in a silver chaise across the enchanted obsidian fireplace. "Draco's probably up with that third-year girl, flirting his arse off. Just don't...don't _touch_ anything."

Minutes passed, and as Jameson stared into the flickering orange firelight, gruesome scenes of battles and duels erupted before his eyes, monstrous beasts howling in the moonlight, lovers meeting at dawn - Jameson flinched as heat licked at his fingertips, his hand unknowing creeping out to caress the flame.

A chuckle came from above him, and he lifted his gaze to find a humongous tapestry of a dark-skinned, silver-haired man leering down at Jameson from the mantel. The man- Salazar Slytherin, he assumed - absentmindedly stroked the head of a large, heavily-fanged brown snake. The snake's tongue flicked out, and Jameson could swear he could hear a soft, hissing laugh. " _Silly mortal,"_

A chill cascaded down his spine, and Jameson shuddered in relief as the sound of Draco and Terry's bickering reached his ears.

**XXXI:**

Jameson cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on the cold stone floor as goosebumps ran up his bare arms. "So, um..." he broke through the silence. "What exactly does this ritual entitle that requires me to be shirtless? And tattooed?"

The Slytherin dorms were completely transformed within the past view hours, the couches and tables shoved to the side of the corridor to make room for a large circle of holy, surrounded by two smaller bubbles where Terry and Draco sat on their knees. Jameson had been placed ceremoniously within the largest circle, cross-legged and loosely bound by - misleadingly strong - emerald-green ribbons. His consent had been dubious, but Jameson was reassured time and time again he would _probably_ make it out unscathed.

"It's an emblem, not a _tattoo._ That's a Muggle concept, Jamie." Terry, who had been poring over a worn leather journal, glanced up to peer ruefully at the silver and black _Ouroboros_ painted over Jameson's heart. "And do I really need to go over this with you, _again?"_

Jameson sheepishly glanced down at his chest, studiously ignoring the pale scars crisscrossed along the front and back of his torso. He lifted a finger to touch the snake emblem _,_ only to receive a mild stinging hex from the end of Terry's wand. Jameson swore, gripping his hand. "Well, to be honest, I was a bit _distracted_ the first time, when you were scraping a _giant-arse_ knife across my chest," he snapped.

Terry rolled his eyes. "Don't act so petty, Jameson - it was only to apply the ink!" he said dismissively. "And you should be grateful; in the time of our great-great-great-great-great grandparents, they actually _engraved_ the _Ouroburos_ into the tribute's flesh before injecting holy water through their veins to 'cleanse' the soul. It was quite gruesome," he said wistfully.

"Fascinating," Jameson drawled. "But what's it _for_ _,_ Terry?"

"Resurrection. Rebirth. Rejuvenation. An endless cycle of birth and death," Draco interjected, sitting up on his knees. His long green robes rippled across the flooring, revealing a golden inner fabric. "Tonight, we'll be witnessing the very spirit of Yule, and you'll be our conduit of energy; or, if you wish to use the archaic term - our virgin sacrifice. The spirit of Yule only appears in the souls of the pure, apparently, but mother and father usually just use kidnapped Muggle children," he said idly, before wincing at the sharp look in Jameson's eyes.

"Hey! I certainly don't agree with it, but the children always live," he said defensively, swishing his wand absentmindedly before swearing loudly as the candle before him erupted in orange flame. Draco licked his fingers, deftly pressing them into the candle wick. The orange light was extinguished with a puff of grey smoke, and Draco shook the sting out of his fingertips. "I think you wrote the spell wrong," he informed his cousin, crumpling the slip of paper in his hand. "The flame is supposed to be white, I believe, _'to signify the pure blood pumping through the chests of-'"_

 _"'- the chests of our brethren,'_ yes, Draco. I do pay attention to my parents, on occasion," Terry said tiredly, eyes skimming over his book. "Mother was supposed to translate the rune-spell from Old Frisian to Latin for me, but I swear to Merlin, her handwriting is practically chicken-scratch."

He flipped the book around and slid it across the floor. "Of course it is, what else could you expect from an ill-raised half-blood like herself?" Draco sneered, lifting the book. Terry scowled, and Jameson made a disapproving noise from within his ring of holly. Draco glanced up with a grimace, mostly apologetic, before turning back to the journal.

Pursing his lips, he lifted his wand, aiming it at the tall bayberry-wax candle. The near-purple candle was surrounded by a ring of smaller blue candles, lit with a bright red flame. Terry's ring of candles was near identical.

"Repeat after me, Terry," Draco cleared his throat, glancing down at the book on his lap. Jameson straightened, looking on intently. " _Ignis ex corde sanctus sicut et virgo, accipe sacrificium ac recreo et memoriae ec yule spiritus avite,"_ ** _*_**

Terry echoed the words fluently, and Jameson felt an eruption of warmth emit from their wands, before the bayberry candles lit with a glorious white light. Jameson jerked abruptly as the ribbons tightened around him, and the _Ouroboros_ began to tingle, winding around his chest and licking at his nipple. He shivered at the sensation, and forced himself to watch as Draco and Terry became partially enthralled by the divine light, their mouths persistently chanting the mantra "- _et memoriae ec yule spiritus avite._ _Ignis ex corde sanctus-"_

A tight pressure began to surround the Ravenclaw, and he was forced to close his eyes as the overwhelming scent of earth, ice and fire encompassed him. A tinkling song pressed it's way past the chanting, bell-like in one second, booming in the next. The taste of candied ham and sharp mint melted on his tongue while memories of a thousand Yule Tide celebrations flooded his vision; distant and blurry, but beautiful nonetheless.

His heart swelled, color erupting behind his eyelids. He was chilled and warmed at the same time, a shiver wracking his upper body. Jameson opened his eyes again as he heard a long, content sigh, and he knew that no matter the gaiety he felt grow in his heart, Draco and Terry were having it _much_ better.

Minutes passed - or perhaps hours- before Jameson felt the _Ouroboros_ stiffen against his ribs. That was the only warning he received, before an almost scary glow of green and white overtook the snake tattoo, swiftly blinding him. His limbs tingled with energy, and when he was finally capable of seeing again, the _Ouroboros_ was gone with an eerie whisper. _"_ _Vale, Harrius Potter. Felicem natalem Christi."_ ** _*_** ** _*_**

**XXXII:**

Draco was unusually kind that evening, dragging the bleary-eyed Jameson over to his bed in the Slytherin dorms, where Terry already lay asleep, covers tucked beneath his chin. "You're exhausted, Jameson," Draco said, pushing him onto the bed. "Terry's already conked, as you can see; you might as well sleep here tonight. Can't have you getting lost in the corridors, after curfew."

At that logic, Jameson hesitantly crawled beneath the sheets, and watched through lidded eyes as Draco moved in next to him. "We do this every year," Draco explained, glancing over fondly at his sleeping cousin on the opposite end of the bed. Terry's usually immaculate hair was splayed across the large silk pillow, and the Ravenclaw snuffled in his sleep, rubbing his nose against the pillowcase.

"Either on New Years or Christmas, we arrange for a slumber party - just the two of us." Draco yawned, nestling his head into the pillow. "And in the morning, we eat pancakes and bacon and open presents under a huge fir tree. Taller than the one outside the Great Hall, even," he droned on, his silk-like voice slowly lulling Jameson into a lethargic stupor.

"Mother usually gets me designer robes or the like, while father gets me books - never fiction. Usually something about the Dark Arts, but sometimes he slips in something about dragons or potions that I actually _enjoy_ ," his voice darkened for a moment, and Jameson slitted his eyes open, watching as Draco stared into the distance, forearm tucked beneath his head.

"This is my first Christmas away from home, you know," Draco said quietly, eyes flitting downwards. "I didn't think I'd miss my parents so much...but I do. A lot of people think them stoic and cold, but at home...they're different. They _care._ They listen to me even when I'm whinging or rambling, they hold me when I bang my knee playing Quidditch, they wipe my tears when I get overwhelmed-" Draco cut off suddenly, turning to face the (barely) awake Ravenclaw, his green eyes peeking out from beneath long lashes. "Sorry," he cleared his throat, blinking away wetness from his eyes. "I forgot; you don't have parents, do you? But you must have relatives, right?"

Jameson flinched at the question, shifting uncomfortably onto his back. There was a long moment of silence, and Draco thought Jameson had fallen asleep, before the brunette responded softly.

"I do," he said finally. "But they're not as... _good_ as your parents seem. They don't really like m..." he broke off, briefly clenching his eyes shut. "You...you know, Dray? If you don't mind, I'd really just like to sleep."

Draco's brow crinkled at the uncharacteristically bitter lilt to his friends voice, and stretched out his hand. After a moment's hesitation, Draco began to hesitantly thread his fingers through Jameson's soft hair, gaining confidence as the brunette gave a content sigh. "Well...I'm knackered," Draco said eventually, pulling away. "I'll just wake you in the morning, for presents, then, alright?" Jameson mumbled something, moving his head abruptly to lie atop Draco's pajama-clad chest. Draco stiffened at the contact. "What...what was that?" he asked, voice rough.

"M' getting presents?" Jameson asked again, and Draco frowned at the question, staring down at the smaller boy.

"Of course you are, Jamie," Draco chided lightly. "What gave you that silly idea? It's Christmas, and you're spending it with a Malfoy and a Boot. We wouldn't deprive you of your holiday!"

Jameson smiled, then, and Draco's breath caught at the sweetness of it. "Thank you," Jameson said genuinely, moving to press the top of his head in the crook of Draco's armpit. "I've-" he yawned widely. "I've never had a real Christmas before..." he trailed off.

**XXXIII:**

It was found on his bed, in the Ravenclaw dorms. Jameson's brows crinkled at the crudely-wrapped package sitting innocently on his smoothed bedspread, before a light chirp came from the large bay window. Jameson jumped in surprise, turning to catch sight of an achingly-familiar tawny owl perched on the sill.

A smile stretched across his face, teeth gleaming. "Ludwig!" he exclaimed, rushing over to caress the bird's sleek brown head. "What're you doing here?"

The bird cherrupped again, nudging it's beak against Jameson's hand. With a light squawk, Ludwig fluttered over to Jameson's bed, kicking it's leg at the present. Jameson chuckled in amusement, making his way back. "It's always about work for you, isn't it?" he teased. "Can't even spare a moment to speak with your favorite customer?"

At the owl's expectant gaze, Jameson swiftly tore off the wrapping, a tan piece of parchment slipping to the floor.

Staring at the fabric in confusion, he unraveled the bit twine around it and released the folds. Down, it cascaded, a long sheath of purplish-silver fabric, glinting like gems in the sunlight. Jameson's mouth worked in bewilderment, and he glanced at the bird, who seemed oddly smug. Grasping hold of the hood, Jameson soon realized it was a cloak. In one swift movement, he draped it across his shoulders, finding it comfortably warm and smooth against his skin.

Glancing down at himself, he nearly yelped. His entire body- from his neck, down - was completely invisible.

Practically tripping over his feet, Jameson made his way to the long mirror propped against the wall, staring at himself in morbid curiosity. "Holy _shite,_ Ludwig," he swore, turning sideways. "Who...? How...? Where...?" he stammered, (sounding a bit like an obnoxious moron, in hindsight, but at least no one but the bird was around to hear it.)

Ludwig hooted in response, before hopping off the bed to find something beneath the discarded wrappings. Plucking up a slip of paper, he waddled over to Jameson, eyes glinting with dark humor. Swallowing heavily, Jameson folded the cloak across his arm and gently took the note.

_To; Harry Potter_

_Your father left this in my possession before he died._

_It is time it was returned to you._

_Use it well._

_A Very Merry Christmas to you._

Jameson was torn between panic and amazement. "Someone...someone _knows_!"

* * *

**_To Be Continued_ **

* * *

**_*_** Roughly translated to _'_ _Fire of heart, pure as virgin soul, accept this offering and resurrect memories of Yule spirit of old.'_

 ** _*_** ** _*_** Directly translated to 'Farewell, Harry Potter. Happy Christmas.'


End file.
